


Round Trip

by boccardo_syllogism



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Groundhog Day AU, M/M, Secret Santa, Time Travel, opera and bread: my twin passions in life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9139162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boccardo_syllogism/pseuds/boccardo_syllogism
Summary: At precisely 8:03 in the morning on the seventeenth of November, Martin awakes to the sound of muffled yelling coming from the kitchen downstairs.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/gifts).



> For Claire in the Cabin Pressure Secret Santa - sorry it's so late, it fought me every inch of the way. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but somehow I doubt I'll ever get everything as perfect as you deserve, you divine being of awesomeness. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> The prompt was "hilarious time-travel." I fear I missed the mark on hilarious - angst is just too intrinsic to my personality - but everyone loves a Groundhog Day au, right? And bread?

At precisely 8:03 in the morning on the seventeenth of November, Martin awakes to the sound of muffled yelling coming from the kitchen downstairs.

For once, he gives in to the urge to scream into his pillow.

 

***

 

When Martin stomps down the stairs twenty minutes later, doing up his uniform tie, Alex and Todd are still bellowing at each other. Hell hath no fury like a roommate scorned, and eating the last slices of bread they had in the house and not owning up to it is “-such a _dick move_ , Todd, what the fuck!”

“I keep telling you I didn’t eat it, you prick! I don’t even like white bread!”

“Obviously you do, since it’s-”

“ENOUGH!” Martin shouts. The boys shut up immediately - he’s normally very quiet and tries to stay out of the students’ affairs, but this morning he’s _had it_. “Molly ate the rest of it last night and she’s buying more later today. More importantly, it is barely half eight in the morning and you two have been screaming like a pair of toddlers over _bread_. You are grown adults who can and should handle disputes much more maturely!”

He waves their nervous apologies away irritably, and since he can practically _hear_ an amused Douglas drawling, “My, my, sir is certainly putting his magnificent hat to work today,” he slams the door on his way out.

 

***

 

The radio plays exactly the same songs on the way to the airfield that it did the last nineteen times he drove to work. His cold fingers drum against the steering wheel at exactly the same red lights at exactly the same intersections as his last nineteen commutes. A splatter of bird feces hits his windshield in exactly the same place at exactly the same time as the nineteen times previous, and Martin doesn’t even react.

He’s used to it by now.

The van pulls into the airfield parking lot and parks in the same spot it’s held for nineteen days straight. At this point, Martin could maneuver his way in between the cars on either side with his eyes closed. He won’t, though. He knows better than that.

The portacabin is, as usual, empty as he makes his way in, absentmindedly rubbing his hands together to warm them up. The moment he realizes what he’s doing, though, he immediately shoves his hands in his pockets. He does have a pair of gloves, but they’re sitting on his desk at home because MJN is flying to Antananarivo today and he doesn’t want to be carrying around a pair of gloves in the Madagascan summer heat. It is a very logical decision to leave his gloves at home in spite of the November chill. Which Douglas should appreciate.

But Martin is on edge for the entire half hour he does paperwork, because he knows from nineteen identical days’ worth of experience that Douglas will walk through the portacabin door, grimace at the continuing ineptitude of its heating system, and start to greet Martin before-

“Good lord, Martin, it’s absolutely frigid outside - where are your gloves?”

The pen breaks in Martin’s hand.

Then he’s shouting, too loud, at a frozen Douglas that they are flying to Madagascar of all places, that he is actually capable of making decisions, that he doesn’t just wander through life in a daze waiting for the almighty Douglas Richardson to dispense wisdom and knowledge, that if Douglas is so concerned with the state of his captain’s fragile health then perhaps _he_ should do the walkaround for once in his life, to ensure that Martin will make it to the icy tundra that is Madagascar without requiring hospitalization.

Douglas’ jaw sets. Without another word, he turns around, and when the door slams shut it shakes the entire portacabin.

Martin drops his head into his hands.

 _Fuck_.

 

***

 

Martin has lived nineteen previous iterations of today. The first time, when he woke up to an oddly familiar argument in his own bed instead of to the tinny alarm of a hotel room in Antananarivo, he’d gone through the entire day in dazed disbelief. Douglas had even commented on Martin’s unusual behaviour. After Martin had won the word game, because Martin had known what Douglas’ answers would be, because he’d lived the day already.

And like the first time, he’d turned down Douglas’ casual offer of dinner at some hole in the wall restaurant that was no doubt fantastic if Douglas had suggested it. The first time, it had been because he was exhausted from the nine-hour flight and having his morning interrupted by Alex and Todd. The second time, he’d just been eager to go to bed to make this impossible day end.

But Martin had woken up to the sound of furious yelling about bread of all things again. And again, and again, and again, and again, and here he is with his head in his (yes, freezing) hands on the twentieth identical morning and no idea how to move on to tomorrow.

Nevertheless, Martin is at heart a practical man, so he mechanically begins to collect the shattered pieces of his pen. All the necessary paperwork for today’s flight is already filled out - Martin has the information memorized by now. In two minutes, Arthur will barrel through the door with a cheery “Hullo, Skip!” followed by Carolyn, who will pluck the sheaf of completed paperwork from his hands without even bothering to ask for it first. She’ll spare a moment for her customary glare at Douglas’ desk, which is as usual absolutely covered with papers, before dispatching Arthur to make coffee.

Douglas hasn’t been outside when this happens before.

Martin sighs. He knows he was incredibly cruel to Douglas, who genuinely hadn’t done anything to deserve it. An apology is already drafting in the back of his head, but he knows it’s little more than empty words to the last person he ever wants to yell at. This version of the seventeenth of November is shaping up to be the worst yet. With his luck, this will be the one that sticks.

He wishes he could forget the look of stunned hurt on Douglas’ face.

 

***

 

“Coffee for you, Skip! Oh, good morning, Douglas - tea, coffee?”

Martin comes very close to spilling hot coffee all over himself in shock as Douglas calmly settles in at his desk, having slipped in without Martin noticing, and requests tea. Arthur bounds off, humming loudly and off-key, and Martin is left staring as Douglas sorts through a pile of papers.

Now is really not the time to notice how handsome he is, but Martin’s pretty sure there’s a small part of his brain that’s permanently dedicated to pointing out his first officer’s attractiveness at the most inopportune moments. Recently it has been focusing rather a lot on Douglas’ coat, which clings to his deliciously broad shoulders, and Martin knows from guilty experience that when he stands up, it makes Douglas look even taller than he already is.

Douglas scowls as he loses his grasp on a paper, distracting Martin from his reverie, and impatiently pulls the glove off his hand with his teeth. Martin has to shut his eyes to regain his composure.

When he exhales slowly and opens them again, Douglas has wandered over to the window. He’s examining what appears to be the weather forecast with far more intensity than it deserves, considering that it’s scheduled to be clear skies all the way to Antananarivo.

“Douglas?”

There’s no reply. Steeling himself, Martin gets up and moves a bit closer.

His first officer turns to fix him with a cold stare. “Am I allowed to speak now, _sir?_ ”

Martin winces. “I’m sorry, Douglas.”

A raised eyebrow.

He gulps and continues. “That was absolutely awful of me. I shouldn’t have lost my temper at you and I’m so sorry.”

Douglas relaxes a bit, but he still looks rather distant. “If after all this time, that’s what you think of me-”

 _No, no, no, no, absolutely not - the very opposite, in fact._ He denies it as strenuously as he can, horrified apologies jumbled with attempts to explain how deeply he hates that those words came out of his mouth, and he’s pacing in distress when a warm hand on his arm stops him in his tracks.

The Douglas part of his brain rather nonsensically notes that Douglas has always been somewhat of a furnace compared to Martin.

“I’ve never seen you like that before. What’s wrong, Martin? Where did that come from?” When he looks up, Douglas looks so genuinely concerned that his heart cramps a little.

“I… it’s…” The thing is, he can’t really tell him the _truth_. Douglas has already witnessed one mental breakdown this morning. “... it’s personal. I can’t- I’m sorry.”

And that, of course, is when Arthur arrives with Douglas’ tea, and though Arthur is as cheerful as ever, Douglas just looks tired and lonely.

 

***

 

The flight is uneventful. Their clients - a pack of jittery volunteers and their manic coordinator, who is brandishing a neon clipboard and an unnaturally like her life depends on it - grow increasingly less impressed with Arthur’s collection of lemur facts as the nine hours wear on. Martin lets Douglas win the word games.

As they taxi to their stand at Ivato International Airport, the sun is setting. It really is a beautiful sight, but Martin will be happy if he never has to see pinks and golds over the Antananarivo skyline ever again, and Douglas doesn’t seem to be paying it much attention either. He hadn’t the last nineteen times they’ve landed, either, so Martin pushes down on the queasy feeling that his stupid outburst had… well. Ruined things.

Instead, he counts down the seconds until GERTI comes to a halt and Douglas snatches his phone out of his flight bag. He makes a show of stretching as it comes alive with a buzz and waits for Douglas to finish tapping. He knows how this goes.

“Waiting for a message?” he asks nonchalantly.

The pause before Douglas answers is so brief that only someone who’s had this exact conversation almost two dozen times would notice. “Nothing terribly important, no. Post-landing checks, Captain?”

The same response as usual. Martin allows himself a relieved smile. “Of course, Douglas.”

 

***

 

After they check in at the predictably grimy hotel that evening, Martin decides that he’s going to take Douglas up on his offer of dinner at L’Emeraude for the first time, but after an hour of waiting there still hasn’t been a knock at his door. It’s always been within ten minutes before.

It takes a long time to fall asleep that night.

At precisely 8:03 in the morning on the seventeenth of November, Martin awakes to the sound of muffled yelling coming from the kitchen downstairs. The knot in his chest eases and he presses a silent _thank you_ into his pillow.

This time, Douglas walks through the portacabin door, grimaces at the continuing ineptitude of its heating system, and mock-salutes Martin before dropping the day’s newspaper on his predictably messy desk.

Martin stares down at his gloved hands, feeling giddy.

When they land in Antananarivo, Martin reaches back to throw his gloves into his flight bag at the same time that Douglas reaches for his phone. Douglas had been slightly quicker, so the collision results in the front pocket of his bag spilling most of its contents on the cockpit floor. His battered passport falls open to the identification page, and as Martin scrambles to pick up all of the detritus, his eyes slide over it.

And then again. And again.

When Douglas reaches for the rest of the items in his arms, he hands them over in a daze, mind still stuck on the passport.

The seventeenth of November, the day he is currently living for the twenty-first time, is also Douglas’ birthday.

 

***

 

He bolts down a likely-looking aisle, eyes flitting across rows of alien labels. God, his French is rusty - how do you say sparkling grape juice? Grape is _raisin_ , juice is _jus_ , he remembers that much from school, but sparkling has long been forgotten, if he ever knew it at all.

This slightly manic train of thought is interrupted by his ringtone, and he nearly drops the phone when he sees who’s calling.

“Martin? Where are you?”

“Douglas! I’m - er, _excusez-moi, madame_ \- at a supermarket.”

“What on earth for? We’re only here til morning and our flea pit _du jour_ does actually do meals, if of unsurprisingly dubious quality.”

 _That’s an understatement_ , Martin thinks, remembering twenty nights of barely edible room service. “I needed... something specific.”

“Do you even have local currency?”

“I-” Martin stops dead in the middle of the aisle, earning him a nasty look from an elderly woman who nearly runs straight into him. He doesn’t. He isn’t sure what the local currency is even called.

Douglas’ voice is full of fond exasperation as he says, “Come back to the hotel, Captain. There’s a charming French restaurant I’ve been meaning to try, if you’d like to join me for dinner. Don’t worry, I can provide the necessary funds.”

Martin almost protests that Douglas shouldn’t have to pay on his birthday, but as he opens his mouth to say so, the implications hit him like a ton of bricks. Douglas has been asking him to L’Emeraude so he won’t be alone on his birthday. Martin has turned him down every time.

He suddenly feels sick.

“Martin?”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out much more somber than it should have. Logically, he knows that those past rejections technically never happened. Douglas hasn’t lived the same days he has. He knows this, he _does_ , but that doesn’t stop him from needing to apologize for not knowing.

Douglas laughs. “No need to sound so terribly serious. Getting distracted for a moment is hardly a sin.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” Martin fumbles for a suitable explanation that doesn’t sound as ridiculous as the truth. His eyes fall upon a cake in a passing shopper’s basket and inspiration strikes: the answer to a different question. “I was trying to find grape juice. Well, sparkling grape juice, because it’s your birthday and I wanted to give you something to celebrate with, and obviously champagne isn’t an option but sparkling grape juice is at least sort of similar, and I’m terrible at French so the chances of me finding anything better here aren’t great but I wanted to get you _something_ , you know? Except I’ve been an idiot and don’t have money and I can’t find any grape juice here anyway, so...”

He trails off, horribly aware that he’s babbling. There is utter silence on the other end of the line. Dread solidifies in the pit of his stomach as the awkward moment stretches on and on and on - has he said too much, has he given himself away, has he ruined everything? - until Douglas clears his throat gruffly and Martin’s entire body sags in relief.

“I believe the saying goes ‘it’s the thought that counts.’ Thank you, Martin.” If his normally velvet voice is just the slightest bit rough, neither comment on it.

The food at L’Emeraude is incredible. Martin watches Douglas gesture with his fork as he talks about French cooking and tries not to pretend it’s a date.

 

***

 

At precisely 8:03 in the morning on the seventeenth of November, Martin awakes to the sound of muffled yelling coming from the kitchen downstairs.

He wears the gloves. He makes sure to exchange currencies at the airport. He looks up how to say sparkling grape juice in French - _pétillants de raisins_ , as it happens - and successfully buys a bottle. He returns to the hotel to find Douglas in front of his door, looking baffled and pulling out his phone. He, despite having a whole day to imagine what he’ll say, presents the bottle just as inarticulately as before. He finally peeks up from staring his shoes after stuttering to a halt to find Douglas smiling at him, soft and warm and real. He goes to L’Emeraude and toasts his first officer, his best friend, his Douglas with sparkling grape juice instead of water.

He does everything right this time.

And at precisely 8:03 in the morning on the seventeenth of November, he awakes to the sound of muffled yelling coming from the kitchen downstairs and pitches his pillow against the wall in a fit of pique.

Over the course of the day, however, it occurs to him that if he has to keep reliving this damn day again and again, he may as well try to please Douglas as much as possible each time, and by the time he settles into bed that night he has a plan.

 

***

 

At precisely 8:03 in the morning on the seventeenth of November, Martin Crieff launches out of bed just as the opening strains of an argument he could recite in his sleep float up the stairs.

“-kidding me? Where’s the - Martin!”

“Morning, Alex,” Martin pants. “Listen, Todd, you work at a record store, right?”

“Yeah,” Todd says blearily - he is very obviously not entirely awake yet.

“D’you sell opera CDs?”

Todd blinks. “Opera? Yeah, in the classical section, I think. I dunno, I don’t usually spend time in that part of-”

“Where’s the store?”

“Uh, across the street from that new petrol station they’re building. I can’t remember the address exactly, but-”

“No need! Thank you, thank you!” Martin dashes out, leaving the boys to stare at each other in confusion. A moment later, his head pops back in. “Molly ate it, she’ll buy more later, thanks again!”

The door slams shut.

“Jesus fuckin Christ,” Alex grumbles. “I really wanted a piece of toast.”

 

***

 

Martin’s done the calculations: if he hurries, he can make it there, find what he’s looking for, and get to the airfield in time to start the flight paperwork before Carolyn and Arthur arrive. He knows the information by heart by now - it’s just a matter of writing quickly. Douglas will be horrified to show up at work before him, and Martin sort of wishes he could see the expression on Douglas’ face when he works _that_ out, but right now he has a job to do.

He parks the van haphazardly and practically sprints through the door. The elderly owner, sorting vinyl records at the counter, looks up in alarm.

“Classical?” Martin gasps.

He points nervously at the far corner of the shop. Seconds later, Martin’s rifling through the stock - would it be under A or V? - and it’s a matter of minutes to find a likely candidate. Placido Domingo - that’s someone good, right? He could swear he remembers hearing Douglas say the name months ago. It’ll have to be good enough.

He pays and hurries back outside. The trip was so brief that the heating in the van hasn’t even gone completely cold yet, and as he swings back onto the road, one eye is constantly darting back to the clock.

Martin walks through the portacabin door an entire minute ahead of schedule and immediately crashes into Douglas’ back. The yelp it causes is something he plans to use as teasing ammunition for weeks, but Martin is more preoccupied with the fact that he’s pressed up against Douglas. Douglas, who is wearing the coat that makes him look even more handsome than usual, who absolutely is a walking furnace of heat. Good lord.

“Are you alright?” Douglas asks, hands on Martin’s shoulders to keep him steady.

Martin thinks he’ll live.

 

***

 

He’s sitting in his hotel room, staring at the garish package on his bed. It suddenly seems like such an inadequate gift when Douglas is about to-

Two short knocks at the door. Martin tries to tamp down on his nervousness.

“Fancy dinner?” Douglas asks, leaning against the doorway. “Only there’s a charming little French restaurant I’ve been meaning to try, and I thought I’d pester you to come join me.”

“Come in for a moment first,” Martin says, with considerably more confidence than he feels.

Douglas raises an eyebrow. “Why, _Captain_ , you presumptuous rascal-”

“Oh, shut up,” Martin groans, pulling Douglas into the room properly. Douglas goes along willingly, chuckling to himself, until he sees the gaudily-wrapped package and stops short.

“Er, h-happy birthday,” stammers Martin awkwardly.

“I hadn’t realized you knew,” Douglas says in an odd voice.

Martin ducks his head, feeling more and more anxious the longer Douglas just _stands_ there, staring. He nudges Douglas’ arm. “Go on, open it - it’s for you, after all.”

With a quick glance at Martin’s face - who knows what his expression is doing - Douglas gingerly picks it up and starts to peel away the frankly hideous paper. A corner appears, and his brow furrows. He tears faster, and suddenly, Martin is fidgeting, unable to look at Douglas, and Douglas is looking blankly at the 1991 Metropolitan Opera recording of Verdi's  _Aïda_.

After a long moment, Martin can’t stand the silence any longer. “It’s just - you’re always humming that one song, and usually when you’re humming that means it’s opera, and I thought it sounded nice, so I asked Herc if he knew it and he told me it was-”

“ _Celeste Aïda_ ,” Douglas whispers, sounding half-strangled.

“- _Celeste Aïda,_  yes, so I looked it up and it really is beautiful - I can see why you like opera so much if it’s all like that.”

He pauses to sneak a quick glance at Douglas to gauge how much better he’s going to have to do with tomorrow’s gift, because Douglas hasn’t really reacted well to this... one……

Douglas isn’t looking at the CD anymore. Douglas is staring at him like he’s never seen anything so wonderful in his life. Like Martin hung the stars for him, like he doesn’t have the words to describe how precious this moment is, and Martin knows precisely what it means because it’s the exact same expression he’s had to hide for months when he’s so in love with Douglas it hurts.

They’re only a few steps apart. Douglas’ eyes barely have time to widen before Martin’s pulling him down into a kiss.

The CD falls to the floor, shattering the cheap plastic case. It doesn’t matter. When Douglas’ hands come up to cradle his face, Martin can hear music anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to get atmospheric, here's a youtube video of Placido Domingo singing Celeste Aïda. It's not the same recording as in the fic - or at least I strongly doubt it is - but it's still an excellent rendition from one of the world's most famous tenors. Skip to 1:21 to get to the part that I imagine Douglas frequently humming.
> 
> https://youtu.be/FO_HHlZMbYc
> 
> As ever, I am preux-chevalier on tumblr. Come yell with me about how incredible Claire is! (This fic is a little over 3k, but trust me, I could fill the Bodleian with praise for Claire. Supremely talented at fic AND art? Come ON, Claire, let us puny mortals live a little. Every single thing you post kills me dead. I am not worthy.)


End file.
